


Best Served

by libbertyjibbit



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Non-Consensual Spanking, Tears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 13:15:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17101259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libbertyjibbit/pseuds/libbertyjibbit
Summary: Hickey, still smarting from his punishment at Crozier's hands, finds a way to pay Irving back for his part in it.





	Best Served

His backside is still throbbing, his wounds healing slowly, but that isn't what is bothering him, not by a long shot. Pain he can handle; it's the rage that he can't. He's seething, furious at his "punishment"; at Crozier for not understanding him, at Irving for opening his stupid, pious, stinking mouth, at Billy for just standing there and watching it happen. But it's Irving that his brain keeps sticking on. Self-righteous Irving, who had met his eyes with grim satisfaction when Crozier had tacked that last offense on to the list of his apparent transgressions. Irving. If he hadn't already had reason to hate him - walking in and destroying a perfectly good arrangement - he would now.

And the worst is that it keeps sneaking up on him, the fury. His usual methods of dealing with it aren't working - he can't take any sort of action against him now without Crozier hearing of it, and although he can imagine all the delightful ways that he could make Irving bleed with no trouble, doing so only serves to frustrate him more. He wants - needs - to take some sort of action, but he's powerless to do so, and every time one of the gashes on his ass stings he's reminded of it. It doesn't help that he can't stop pressing on them, either mentally or physically. Part of him  _wants_  the pain,  _wants_  the rage, because otherwise he'd have to think about the betrayal; about why it hurt so much to see Crozier’s smirk and Billy’s indifference. No, better to be angry. Better to remember that he’s the only on he can count on. Better to –

“Move along, Mr. Hickey,” Irving says, and Cornelius starts, looking over his shoulder, certain that his own irritation is making him hear things. But no, no. He’s in the officer’s quarters, he is, and Irving is trying to exit his room. Apparently his feet had led him here; his impotent rage directing his feet, and with his usual luck he’d stumbled into the very person he most needed to square off with.

A reckless, foolish impulse hits him. He glances around briefly, ignoring Irving’s frustrated huff. There’s no one else about; it’s either too early or too late for the other officers. Without letting himself think about it (if he thinks he’ll stop, and he can’t, he has to do this, has to shut his own head up for one second or he’ll find a knife and that won’t turn out well), he plants his hand in the center of Irving’s chest and  _shoves_ , sending him stumbling back into the room.

“Wha-“ Irving starts, and then he trips over his own feet and falls backwards, sprawling on the floor. His head hits the bedpost when he does, and he goes still.

Cornelius watches him a moment, then bends down (wincing against the way it pulls at his healing skin), and holds his palm in front of Irving’s face. Breath hits it, and he straightens up. Alive then, but unconscious. Cornelius tilts his head slightly, studying him. He has an idea. It will go expressly against the Doctor’s orders (all of them), but he doesn’t mind. It’ll be worth it.

He gathers some supplies, makes some arrangements, then drags Irving towards the bed, hooking his hands under his arms and tugging him along. Irving is taller than him, bigger, but Cornelius is nothing if not determined. He’s not wrong about the pain, either, but it doesn’t matter. After a few moments it almost feels good, a reminder of why he’s doing this at all. He settles Irving how he wants him, pauses to savor what’s about to come, and then douses Irving with freezing water.

~

Irving comes awake spluttering, teeth already starting to chatter with cold. His shoulders hurt, and for some reason all he can see is white. Coupled with the cold, he wonders for a brief second if he’d somehow fallen onto the ice; fallen and hit his head, and none aware to look for him. He can hear breathing, and he thinks in that moment that it must be the creature; it has found him and has only been waiting for him to become fully aware of his fate before it devours him whole. His stomach swoops with terror and he braces himself, waiting for its teeth to bite into his neck. Then he realizes that while his head is cold, the rest of him is warm, comparatively. Then he notes that he’s laying oddly, something pressing into his stomach and his rear in the air. Lastly, he registers the ache in his shoulders and his wrists, and realizes that his hands are tied. “What?” he says, and twists.

A hand lands in the middle of his back, pressing him down into the covers. With nothing to break his fall, Irving’s face smashes into the bedclothes, and he grunts.

“Now, now, Lieutenant,” someone says, voice amused. “I think it’s best if you stay right where you are.”

Irving grits his teeth. “Hickey,” he says, voice hard. “Let me go now, and maybe you won’t get thirty more lashes to match the ones you already have.”

Hickey lets out a low laugh. It chills Irving’s skin more than the freezing water; he can feel gooseflesh prickling along his arms. “I don’t think that will happen this time,” he says, voice genial on top but cruel underneath. “I don’t think you want anyone barging in on this.”

“Barging in on you assaulting me?” Irving demands. “I can’t imagine why you’d think that.”

“You mean you haven’t noticed? That’s fine; you did hit your head pretty hard.” Hickey shifts his legs a bit – and oh, that’s what he’s on, Irving realizes; Hickey has him spread across his legs, but why he’d – and then the thought cuts off as one of the legs brushes against a very sensitive area. A very sensitive area that happens to be very  _exposed_ , he suddenly understands. Hickey has him bare and spread along his legs, one hand still planted firmly on his back, the other resting lightly high on one thigh, fingers just brushing against his backside. For some reason this unnerves Irving even more than the legs; he tries to shift away but Hickey just hauls him in again, and this time his hand is actually on his rear; it strokes lightly along one of his cheeks and Irving bites back a gasp.

Hickey moves his leg again, dragging it deliberately along Irving’s flaccid penis, and in spite of the fact that he doesn’t want anything to do with this, despite the fact that he hates Hickey more than just about anyone, he feels himself start to respond. He tries to roll away, but Hickey has the leverage and easily rights him. “That’s why I don’t think that you want them here,” he says, still moving.

“I – tied,” Irving says – gasps, really – trying to twitch away from that maddening leg.

“Sure you are,” Hickey says agreeably. Irving can hear the smile. “But I wager I can untie you before they get in here.” Irving clenches his jaw so hard his teeth creak, and Hickey gives another short laugh. “It occurs to me that you never did tell good Captain Crozier just who I violated so thoroughly with my deviant ways.” Hickey bends down so he can hiss the rest into Irving’s ear. “And oh, he was violated. And he liked every minute of it, whatever he happened to tell you. But he wasn’t the one getting flogged, was he? He wasn’t the one being accused of dirtiness. Did Crozier ask? Oh, of course he did. But you didn’t say. And I swear to you, Lieutenant: you yell or cry out and I will do my utmost to make it seem that you knew of my sins because you helped me commit them.”

Irving thrashes and almost gets away; at the last second Hickey gets a firm hold on him again, tugging him back. “The Captain would never believe you,” he says, hating how timid his voice sounds. “He saw right through you before; he’d do it again.”

“Mm. Perhaps. But it’s not Crozier I’m aiming to convince.” Hickey strokes against his backside again, then removes his hand. Irving sighs with relief. “Now,” Hickey says, still purring his words like they’re – like Irving is like him. “Do try to be quiet.” And he brings his hand down.

The pain doesn’t even register at first. Irving is too shocked by the slap - by the loud sound it makes, the way it seems to echo around the small room - to register the sting. It is only after Hickey has landed another few blows – all against the same spot – that Irving begins to feel it. “Stop,” he says, and he wants his voice to come out strong, commanding, but instead it emerges small and weak. His vision grows blurry, eyes filling with tears of mingled pain and humiliation, and he feels small again; a young lad being taken over his Da’s knee for misbehaving. Only he’d never been bare on his Da’s knee. Never had one of his legs rubbing up against him with an almost purposeful pressure, making him fill and swell and harden, making him twitch into him even as he tries to pull away. “Stop it this instant.”

“I’ll stop when it’s done,” Hickey says, voice dark, and lands another few blows. Irving squirms, gasps, cries out, and Hickey’s free hand grips at the back of his head, pushing it down into the bedclothes. “Quiet,” he says, sounding a bit out of breath as he lands three heavy blows followed by a patter of short, sharp ones. “You don’t want them to hear this.”

Something about being pressed down like that undoes Irving, and he goes limp, limp everywhere except where he isn’t limp at all, pressing into Hickey’s leg. That awful leg is moving in light circles now, teasing him even as he spanks him again, again, until the pain of it melts into the pleasure he’s feeling; until he can hardly tell the two apart. Irving bites into the bedclothes as tears leak from his eyes, no longer trying to get away but pushing both into and away from both the blows and the delicious friction where he most wants it, hands clenching and unclenching, babbling nonsense into the fabric clamped between his teeth.

“That’s it,” Hickey says, and stops. He strokes lightly, so lightly, against the burning, angry skin of Irving’s rear, before pressing down, hard, pushing him almost painfully into his leg. “Good boy.”

And that’s what does it. Irving cries out, hips thrusting down even harder than Hickey is pushing him, vision going dark as his body betrays him and he spills, making a mess of his bed and Hickey’s legs.

When he comes down, he finds that he’s untied, his body free of Hickey’s grasp. He reaches up, arm aching, to wipe at the mix of tears and snot on his face, and glares at Hickey, who is busy wiping at the mess on his legs with Irving’s best handkerchief. He catches Irving looking and winks. “Didn’t know you had that in you,” he says, absurdly cheerful, and Irving hates him more than he can say. He wonders if this was how he’d started with Gibson; if that was the reason that he’d been so desperate to secure Irving’s promise that he’d leave them  _both_  alone, why he wouldn’t say exactly what Hickey had done. Had Hickey trapped him as he’d trapped Irving? Would he now expect Irving to take his place? He curls in on himself at the thought, feeling sick, wishing that he didn’t feel a small thread of arousal at the thought of it.  _I’m not like him. I don’t-don’t want that,_  he thinks, but he isn’t entirely convinced.

Hickey finishes wiping himself off and tosses the dirty kerchief indifferently onto the bed. “I’d best be off, then,” he says, sliding on his overcoat and doing the buttons. “Wouldn’t want to be missed.” He tilts his head in Irving’s direction. “I’d clean that up before leaving the room. Wouldn't want anyone else to see it, after all. What  _would_  your steward think?” And then he’s gone, leaving Irving alone with only his throbbing backside to prove that he'd ever been there at all.


End file.
